


Take Care Not to Trip Along the Thorns

by Rosewater_53



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Because who doesn't love a masquerade?, Dancing, Don't worry, F/M, Kind of succeeding, Masquerade Ball, Mentioned Manuela Casagranda, Mentions of Dorothea's past, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Trying to heal, White Heron Cup (Fire Emblem), they'll get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosewater_53/pseuds/Rosewater_53
Summary: She likes to imagine that in death, she’ll still have her thorns, even if her beauty fled long ago.  If she does not have her looks, she has her defenses, and hopefully, a gardener too.  To make sure she still has a place, to make sure she won’t be discarded.  For after the flower’s petals fall and wither away, they serve no purpose besides a memory of what was once there.--The ball is too overwhelming (and not to mention, stuffy) for Dorothea to bear, so she escapes to the courtyard.  Unfortunately, a concerned Ferdinand finds her there.  So much for some peace and quiet.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	Take Care Not to Trip Along the Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> This was a result of a burst of inspiration, accompanied with a desire to practice writing in the present tense. (Sorry, past tense, I still love you)! The world can always use some more Ferdie and Dorothea, and I am here to help provide it! 
> 
> (Also, we're going to pretend the ball is ACTUALLY a masquerade in which the students get to dress up. Because that is so much more fun than uniforms).

It is hot- the stuffy atmosphere and heavy layers of cloth choking her. With the cold swirling outside, biting at those who dared to venture in it, she had thought it smart to dress warmly. After all, what girl doesn’t humor thoughts of a rendezvous at the Goddess Tower? Dorothea regrets that. She regrets it all. 

The winner of the White Heron Cup ought to be the centerpiece of the floor, with gentlemen clamoring for the next dance. Her dress should spin a hundred times and then some more, never stopping for a break or a frown. She should be entertaining others. Admired like a sublimely white heron (trapped in a cage, forced to perform). 

But as the victor, dressed in the honorary fine robes and painted to perfection, she sits, glaring at all who approach her. It’s comical; she says her goal at the academy is to find a husband to take care of her, and the ball is the perfect place to accomplish it. Lavish, _rich_ figures are smiling and dancing everywhere. A field of opportunity. The sheer number of the nobles, swarming around her like flies, preying upon what’s left, hoping to get a taste- it makes her sick to her stomach.

But if the nobility isn’t stalking her like a prized lamb, they’re whispering about her. She can feel it in this room- the dismissive looks and the snide remarks. Dancing would block them from her ears, but Dorothea _wants_ to hear them. She wants to have her skin crawl because maybe then she wouldn’t be so damn _hot._

_Well, no matter._

Keeping to herself, she watches her classmates take to the floor, laughing and full of mirth. All without a care in the world or any pressures. If she had not been weighed down by her burdens, Dorothea might have danced as well. But she knows the room is full of people only waiting to watch her fall. And that’s why she continues to sit. 

Strangers and friends ask for dances, but she politely smiles and promises them the next one. It’s utterly exhausting. She will not join the revelry- she’ll only overheat. Why can’t anyone understand that? 

The music keeps getting louder, a crashing crescendo blaring in her ears. 

Dorothea closes her eyes. “I have to get out of here.”

For the first time of the evening, she picks herself up out of her chair. Her white dress unfurls, its delicate ruffles slowly tumbling onto the floor. And like a swan in the night, she takes flight. 

She deftly moves into the crowd (her combat training reveals itself in the most curious situations), blending in with the happy faces. Dorothea dons her mask of joy and all are none the wiser. 

_Fools._

A few see her fly by, trying to coax her to join them. 

“Ah, Dorothea,” a tall, broad figure greets- a phoenix to her heron. “You look even lovelier than usual.”

She nods. “Sylvain.”

“Would you be up for a dance?”

“Well, I would-” _rather not be here._ She turns to her side, scanning for an escape route. _There._ “I would love to, but I promised someone else.”

Sylvain raises his brows. “Who?”

“You’ll see us when you’re dancing with Ingrid.” Scrambling, the eyebrows shoot up, now reaching his hairline. Almost impressed by their range, Dorothea laughs. “Oh, please, you’ve been staring at Ingy the whole night. And I can’t say she hasn’t been doing the same.”

Having been called out, Sylvain flushes. Then- a pause, a flash, a blink. His eyes widen once he realizes what exactly Dorothea said. “Really?”

But he asks the air, as Dorothea already left. 

The courtyard isn’t really cold, but it’s cooler than the ballroom, and that’s all that matters to her. Of course, there is the bonus of it being quiet, providing solitude and reprieve away from the judging sneers. Perhaps _that_ is what made the ball so suffocating. 

She sits down in one of the garden chairs and closes her eyes. Dorothea’s breath comes out like a cloud of smoke, shrouding her in its mist. 

The scenery is far more pleasant, too. The roses are a brilliant red, like the purest ruby, planted in perfect, geometric order. Immense care was put into the garden- precise actions to grow it in the artist’s image. The synthetic beauty is unmatchable. Left alone, the roses would have grown into a tangled mess, sharp and wild. Certainly, their natural look would have no place in Garreg Mach- the ugly, ill-fitting parts are pruned and thrown out. The man-made, cultivated flowers are displayed: unnatural and always delightful… unless one pricks themself on the thorns. 

Dorothea likes thorns. They suit roses well. Florists may clip them away, but they still find their place among the best and the wealthiest. When a flower has its thorns clipped, it’s already dead. She likes to imagine that in death, she’ll still have her thorns, even if her beauty fled long ago. If she does not have her looks, she has her defenses, and hopefully, a gardener too. To make sure she still has a place, to make sure she won’t be discarded. For after the flower’s petals fall and wither away, they serve no purpose besides a memory of what was once there. 

At least the courtyard’s roses smell nice now. 

And the silence is peaceful. 

But a bee has to come buzzing and ruin it all. 

“Dorothea? Is that you?”

The irritation erupts all at once. She quickly runs her fingers through her hair and pats her wrinkled gown. Dorothea puts on a large, saccharine smile that is insincere enough for even Ferdinand _von Aegir_ to notice. “Yes, Ferdie, it’s me.” 

He emerges from a small path next to the rose bushes- the bee lands on the flower. Ferdinand’s warm, honey eyes display a vulnerable worry that, on anyone else, would look silly and childish, but on him, it only highlights his affable nature. “Dorothea, whatever are you doing out here? Are you not freezing?”

“The things we do for some peace and quiet,” she smoothly replies. 

He frowns. “I am sure there are such places within the monastery.” 

“Perhaps.”

She can see the questions forming on his face. Though he doesn't ask them, instead, he shifts in his intricate outfit. Crimson and gold suit him, but Dorothea isn’t sure the grand (and surely expensive) cape trailing behind does him any favors. But the rich colors blend in perfectly with his features- and while he shined in the ballroom, he simply _glows_ in the moonlight. Handsome and powerful in his robes, he is reminiscent of a sun god. Too warm to look at. Dorothea turns away so she does not overheat. 

“What do you want, Ferdie?” She has no time for games and idle, meaningless words. She is never in the mood for them, but she can usually fake her way through. But not tonight. 

“May I sit here?” He gestures to the seat next to her, separated by a tea table and very little distance. 

She sighs. “Knock yourself out.”

He smiles- _she is suffocating_ \- and is suddenly too close to her. 

_I should have just gone to my room,_ Dorothea thinks bitterly. 

“You know,” he says, pulling his cape closer, “sitting here with you reminds me of when we had tea after our class’s victory at Gronder.” 

“Getting nostalgic?”

He laughs. “Always. Though, the chill of the air might exacerbate the feeling… Are you positive you are not cold?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I’m fine.” She cannot help the thoughts drifting in her mind: _but if I said I was, what would you do?_

“Ah, well, inform me if that changes.”

 _Excuse me?_ Just how long does he plan to be here? Dorothea came outside to be alone, not to be harassed by some noble (even if that noble happens to treat her decently, bakes her sweets, and is entirely too attractive for his own good. At least he’s arrogant. She doesn’t know what she would do if he didn’t have any faults. _But he does, doesn’t he?_ Ferdinand von Aegir is a _liar_ ). 

“Ferdie,” she says, growing exasperated, “you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing out here?”

He is quiet for a moment. Dorothea doesn’t understand why he’s choosing to be here with _her._ He knows she isn’t incredibly fond of him, even if their relationship had vastly improved. He would be a better fit back in the monastery, shining with all the other esteemed nobles. Embarrassing as it is, she watched him, back in the ballroom. Ferdinand was often a lot of talk, but he turned out to be a decent dancer. Sure some of his moves were… hard to look at (they were performative and largely exaggerated, like an actor projecting to the last row of the theater), but his charisma more than made up for it. If he had somehow managed to be the class representative for the White Heron Cup, the Black Eagles probably would have pulled off another victory.

She might have even humored him with a dance. 

“Well,” he starts, “it was quite hot in there, yes?”

Dorothea rolls her eyes. That, at least, was something she could relate to. “Understatement of the century, Ferdie. Honestly, I’ve worn so many complicated, bulky costumes, but even the opera isn’t as stifling. Is that a common affair for _your_ balls?”

“The heat? I suppose so, yes. But you learn to ignore it. In the end, dances are simply battles of manners, but if you pretend they are something else, they can be enjoyable. I try to treat them like a performance,” _that explains it,_ “so that I may impress others with my skill. Though, when I was younger, I must confess I often slipped away.”

“You? I don’t believe it.”

Ferdinand laughs, and part of her wants to, too. “It is true! Constance and I used to run away to go play games- until my father put a stop to that.” He sighs, with a wistful smile. “From then on, I had to be on the floor the entire time… ah, but I must be boring you with this?”

“Not particularly,” Dorothea says. She cannot lie, she is curious about his childhood. Perhaps it’s cruel of her to want to know what things she lacked and longed for as a child, but her desire to know what shaped Ferdinand is stronger than possible jealousy. She almost wants him to talk about the day at the fountain, admitting his past wrongs. Maybe then she could bring herself to once again hate the gregarious man. 

“But you said you ignore the heat.”

His eyes soften. “Yes, I did.”

“So what’s the real reason then, Ferdie?”

“You left,” he says plainly.

Her mind comes to a halt, leaving her with no words. Flabbergasted, Dorothea stares at him. "...What?”

“The entire night, I have wanted to dance with you. I resolved to wait, but then you left the hall.” He does not mention her reluctance to get involved with anyone at the ball, though she’s sure there was plenty said about it. “And I thought… I thought you might get cold. That is why I am out here, Dorothea.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t really know what to say. 

It’s growing darker outside, and a freezing breeze is starting to set in. Now of all times- Dorothea must be unlucky. But with the dark, they can hardly be seen by others. Hell, she can barely see the roses, entwining with one another (soon to be cut and replaced next week). Therefore, there will be no fuel for even more unsightly rumors, making her bristle with anger and Ferdinand flush with shame. It may be possible then, to grant his wish. 

“Well,” Dorothea hesitantly says, “It might just be your lucky day, Ferdie.”

Ferdinand raises a confused eyebrow, and he almost looks cute _._ “Pardon?” 

Dorothea sighs. “Would you like to give the _honorary_ White Heron her first dance of the night?”

“Oh!” He quickly stands, gathering himself as the surprise melts off into a bright smile. “It would be an honor, Lady Dorothea.”

 _Oh dear._ Despite herself, she lets out a giggle. “Come then, I don’t want to be kept waiting in the cold.”

“So you _do_ admit it is frigid!” 

“Urk… possibly.” She takes his hand, placing it on her waist, and reaches up to his shoulder. He startles, but accepts her touch. Dorothea's hands are probably too cold, but if she raises them just right, Ferdinand won't see the goosebumps littering her arms. And- _there we go._ It’s somewhat ironic that she seems to fit well against him. In a way, it’s a giant slap in the face from the goddess. But Dorothea has never expected any less from her. 

Ferdinand’s face is flushed, but then again, it _is_ cold. “Uh, Dorothea,” he manages, “is this not a little close?”

“I don’t mind it, do you?”

“Uh… if you do not, then I do not.”

“Good.” 

And with that, they begin their dance. Without a steady tempo and an established rhythm from music, their movements are a little clumsy at first. Ferdinand is a bit too slow and his body too tense, and she keeps stepping into him, but Dorothea doesn’t mind it. (Her heartbeat is so loud that she doubts she would hear music anyway). The imperfection shows sincerity, making her far more comfortable than she pretended to be. In fact, surprising as it is, being in Ferdinand’s arms is... enjoyable. 

Eventually, they do take their steps together, with something almost resembling a call and response, and they float into gentle turns around the rose bushes. Is this what the audience feels like, watching the actors mid-embrace, singing their love to one another? Her stomach is practically doing flops- and even during a performance she is not this nervous or _content_ . The missing music has been replaced by the thumping of her chest, Ferdinand’s little chuckles, and a distant memory of an aria. Manuela’s aria. If she wasn’t so charmed, she might have found herself annoyed by how, well, as silly as it is, _enchanting_ it was. Staring into his gold eyes- a girl could get used to that. But she knows it’s just a silly fantasy in the end. Ferdinand thinks she hates him and she _thought_ she hated him, but swirling around, she doesn’t know what’s left or right anymore. All she knows is he labored over sweets for her, he left what was supposed to be the highlight of the Ethereal Moon for her, that he’s currently so close she notices his lips are chapped and can make out each brittle split, and that he ran away from her when her body was wet and she was singing that damn aria (now blaring in her head, that’s all she hears), but she was still _free_ and not confined in a suffocating cage. But that’s not even the worst of it. Not even close. His eyes are gleaming with fondness and are utterly guileless; they are not eyes belonging to a callous liar. (Her own _father_ , at least if her suspicions are true, had tried to imitate Ferdinand’s look, but the craven only resembled a wolf, slobbering begs from his lips, lusting over a delicate songbird). 

But if the gentleman in her arms is not a liar, then she _is_ , and the mistreatment and abuse she suffered from the hands of the vain, greedy nobles means _nothing._

Slowly, she loosens her grip on Ferdinand and her hand falls limp at her side. It feels like lead, her heart is jumping into her throat, and it’s all too much to handle when trying to attempt a waltz. 

“Dorothea?” His intense concern is apparent. She feels sick and horribly guilty. 

“It was a nice dance- wasn’t it, Ferdie?” Dorothea looks away, blinking heavily. Tears sting in her eyes, but she isn’t sure where they came from. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

“I… it _is_ a nice dance. Should we not continue?” Ferdinand searches for her face, but she won’t look him in the eye. 

“Shouldn't you head back to the ball? You should be there- you _belong_ there. Not here, in the dirt-” _with me._

The last two words were not uttered, but Ferdinand, _miraculously_ , hears the hidden meaning. “Dorothea,” he says slowly, carefully. 

She turns back to him. “Ferdinand.” 

“I am not…” he trails off, wearing a pained expression. “I am not certain what I have done, but I promise I meant no offense.” 

“I know.” Her admission comes out in a whisper. “And I _wish_ I could believe it.” 

Ferdinand’s brow furrows. 

_If he continues doing that, he’ll get wrinkles._ She shuts her eyes. _That would be a shame._

He has a severe expression, and Dorothea can feel a monologue coming on. She doesn’t get to be the audience very often. 

_Ferdie would have made a fine actor. What a shame._

She lets him take her hands, clasping them tightly to his chest. 

Her tears escape their prison, slipping down her cheeks like rain, and _would you look at that,_ her makeup is ruined, and- what a damn _shame_. She worked so hard on it.

“Dorothea, I shall do whatever it takes to earn your trust. Ask for anything, and I will deliver," Ferdinand says, his earnest words ringing with sincerity. "If you should ask me to find a flower in the depths of Ailell, you’ll possess it within a fortnight. If you desire spices from Almyra or fruit from Brigid, I will depart tomorrow. And if you should ask me to leave you alone,” his eyes soften to an almost impossible degree, and her guilty, loathing tears fall even harder, “then I shall leave you be."

His hand curls at the side of her face, wiping away the smudged stains and little raindrops. “I do not wish for you to ask me the latter. But if I must, know that I will.” 

“Oh, _Ferdie_.” He’s sincere to a fault and dense as hell, but in this moment, he is saying the kindest, most cliche words she’s ever heard, and she can’t bring herself to be angry with him. 

So she hugs him instead. 

He tenses under her arms (understandable- how can he not be surprised?), but slowly folds into her touch, giving his in return. 

It’s pleasant. He may be warm, but Dorothea breathes easily. 

“Ferdinand?” Her face is buried in his shoulder, so her words come out muffled.

“Yes?” His voice lacks clarity too, but she thinks he’s just choked up. Or maybe choking on her hair. (It's happened before).

“When we were dancing,” she says, dazed and not really thinking, “did you hear music?”

“Music? In my head, you mean?”

He’s _very_ warm. “Yeah.”

Dorothea can feel his mouth curl up on her temple. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“And?”

“I am sure you know of it. 'The Night Aria' from _The Tempest’s Dawn._ ” 

Oh, does she know it. Dorothea doesn’t think there is a soul who hasn’t heard it. “The Night Aria” is widely adored everywhere in Adrestia, and even those writhing away on the streets of Enbarr can sing it in their sleep. It’s a beautiful song of devotion and hopeful love. She’s hollowly sung it dozens of times, but she can fake emotions she hasn’t yet realized. Besides, even if she did relate to the song, it’s not like she can hold a candle to Manuela. Manuela’s voice: silky and light as air moving through the absurd notes and rich melody- this song is what propelled her to stardom. Sure, she may have not wielded her famous blade, her _thorns,_ but in its place, she had the love of a man and the enamored hearts of the audience. The violence, dancing, and swords would come later in her career.

But Dorothea is _not_ a mediocre performer. Manuela was the top of the top, but she is no slouch either. Her rendition of the aria is still _fantastic,_ and it was the one Manuela overheard Dorothea singing out in the streets. Not as good as the esteemed diva of course, but from an untrained, raggedy urchin, it might as well have been a chorus of angels. And then the chorus was an encore performed on the fountain stage, with an audience composed of a young boy in love with the opera and his heritage. 

And now? It was the song _both_ Ferdinand _and_ Dorothea imagined during their dance. Well, their movements did sync up faster than she expected. Having realized the reason, Dorothea finds herself oddly touched. It’s a simple thing, but it feels like it means _something_. 

She smiles. 

“Do you want to know a secret, Ferdie?” she lightly asks. 

“I would be honored, Dorothea.” 

“I wanted to dance with you, too.”

And suddenly, she’s no longer cold.


End file.
